Tag: childhood-memories

My Visit to Adoni – A Child’s Memory of Kindness

I must have been quite young, about 6-7 years, when I visited my father’s uncle in Adoni, a small city in Andhra Pradesh. That was the early 1980s, and their neighborhood had rows of small, tiled houses where everyone knew each other. It was a simpler time – not much of city development, just a close-knit community where neighbors seemed to care for each other. Their house was simple – a small house with a tiled roof with just three small rooms: a living room, a small kitchen, and a bedroom. What fascinated me most was the little room on the tiled roof that you could climb up to reach. It felt like a secret hideaway in that modest home.

They didn’t have a bathroom inside the house. Instead, we used the communal street bathroom. As a child accustomed to indoor bathrooms, this was genuinely difficult for me, but I managed. My parents had taught us to adjust gracefully when staying with others, to not make the hosts uncomfortable. They had shown my siblings and me that love and kindness mattered beyond anything.

Adoni Thatha (that’s how I called him) was a happy man who always lovingly addressed me as “Bangaru” (gold). He had this innocence about him and the way he laughed. He had a positivity that even as a young girl, I could feel – perhaps because I had experienced the absence of such warmth before. I felt happier around him and safe.

Looking back, I realize he was the first grandfather figure I felt connected to. Both my grandfathers had passed away before I was born. Even though we did not interact much, the time with him felt like being with my own grandfather.

What I remember most vividly is the Adoni upma that Avva (his wife, grandmother in my language) would make for me. I remember Thatha would rave about this food as it is a traditional food of the city and told me I would love it. He had asked his wife to make this for me. It is my favorite to this day. This south Indian upma was made with puffed rice that was soaked in water and drained. It was made mostly the usual way of making upma but at the end garnished with crushed roasted gram dal and roasted peanuts.

The Parrot with the Broken Wing

One of the most beautiful memories from that visit was a green parrot that Adoni Thatha cared for. This bird had fallen and broken its leg, and I watched how tenderly he took care of it. He kept the parrot in a cage to help it heal. He would take the bird out, wrap its leg with a bandage, and talk to it lovingly. He allowed me to play with the bird, and he would become like a child himself, playing and feeding it.

What touched me even more was learning later – months or maybe years after my visit – that once the parrot’s leg had completely healed, he set it free. This was one of the earliest memories I have of kindness to an animal that stayed with me. Even though he loved the bird dearly, he chose to let it fly away when it was ready. His love for the bird meant wanting it to be free.

Community Friendship

Adoni Avva was equally wonderful. I remember accompanying her as she worked with other women in the community, making cotton threads for lighting lamps in the temple. I don’t remember exactly what I did during those gatherings, but I remember I would observe how it is done and she let me weave a few cotton threads and taught me how to.

I would tag along when she went to visit her friends. As a child, I remember enjoying just observing the surroundings and soaking in the newness of the experiences.

What Children Remember

Looking back now, I realize something profound: children remember kindness above all else. Despite the uncomfortable bathroom situation, despite being in an unfamiliar place with relative strangers, what stayed with me was love.

I wasn’t there with my parents and siblings – it was just me in that small house with these caring people who made sure I felt welcomed, fed, and included. They could have seen my visit as an inconvenience, but instead they treated me, a little girl, like a treasured guest.

They took me around the community, introduced me to their world, and shared their simple but meaningful life with an open heart. In their small house, they made sure I had everything I needed to feel at home.

These memories have stayed with me, not because of any grand gesture or expensive gifts, but because of the genuine warmth I felt in that little house in Adoni. It taught me that hospitality isn’t about having the perfect home or the finest things – it’s about making someone feel truly seen, loved, and valued, and genuinely welcomed with your whole heart.

The Chennai Diaries – The Quiet Strength of Meenatchi Avva

My mother’s aunt, Meenatchi Avva, was the quintessential grandmother figure who inspired me in my childhood formative years. She came to live with us in her 80s, bringing with her a quiet strength and wisdom. Petite and unassuming at first glance, her rounded frame belied how effortlessly light on her feet she actually was. With her stark white hair, porcelain complexion, and a slow, deliberate gait owing to her deeply bowlegged legs, she embodied both grace and resilience. She combed her hair neatly and tied it back into an effortless bun. Her skin bore wrinkles of time, but her smile and mischievous sparkling eyes hinted at a youthful exuberance.

Married at 13 – a common practice then – Avva often reflected her love for learning and how her husband supported her independence. This rare dynamic for their time deepened her belief in personal choice, a value she carried into every aspect of her life. His unwavering support allowed her to pursue passions like Carnatic singing and attending drama shows, deepening her belief in personal freedom. This mutual respect in her marriage shaped her conviction that women should live by their own choices. When she shared about her married life, I could see how passionately she loved her late husband.

What truly set Avva apart was her graceful blend of dignity and humor. She exuded warmth and positivity that was utterly contagious. Her presence brought an aura of calm and purpose. I have never seen her complain or use harsh words or speak ill of others behind their backs. She commanded respect without asserting authority and infused lightheartedness into everyday life through witty songs and faint sarcasm. She often sang songs with playful twists, masking hidden meanings behind a knowing smile. I still remember when she subtly teased a family friend – recently remarried and living with two wives – through a cleverly altered song, leaving my mother and me stifling our laughter once we caught on.

Her quite confidence, strength and humor made it natural for me to gravitate towards her.

For me, as a young teenager, her influence was transformative. I often confided in her, sharing my frustrations about family culture, misogynistic attitudes and what I felt were unfair practices. While I debated with her about feminism and women’s rights, she taught me the wisdom of choosing the right time to express strong emotions. Though I challenged her views on timing my expressions of frustrations, I now see the wisdom in her advice to speak when emotions are calm, and the moment is right.

Yet, our conversations weren’t always serious – we giggled over college stories, and she playfully would ask what kind of man she should find for me. I’d confidently say, ‘Not a doctor, and someone who lives far away.’ She would chuckle, ‘Far? How far?’ and I’d shrug, ‘Just far from home.’ It was my youthful yearning for independence, spoken aloud to someone who understood.

Avva and I slept together in the afternoons in the prayer room on the floor. At times, she would allow me to put my hands and legs on her while sleeping and would gently pat me to sleep. I did not remember having a close relation with either of my parents’ mothers but felt very fortunate for her to fill that role for me.

Avva fit seamlessly into our family, and it was evident she adored living with us. To my mother, she was a guiding hand and a source of empathy. To my father, whose demanding job often kept him away, she became a symbol of the mother he had lost. Their morning coffee conversations were filled with lighthearted exchanges, and Avva even playfully defended my mother in their debates, bringing a balance to our home.

While Avva’s presence brought comfort to our entire family, it was in her personal rituals that her true essence shone brightest. These daily practices weren’t just routines; they were the quiet manifestation of how she moved through life – with purpose, grace, and an unwavering sense of self.

Each morning, she began her day in quiet devotion yet never expected anyone else to follow her routines. Her daily rituals mirrored the balance she maintained between tradition and independence.

Every morning before sunrise, Avva quietly began her day with a bath and personally washed her clothes, refusing help despite the household maid. Using a long wooden stick, she hung them on the ceiling rack in the prayer room. The room, cool with red granite floors and lined with deity images, became her sanctuary. Lighting the oil lamp, she carefully placed fresh garden flowers before the gods. Only after completing her prayers and sharing prasadam would she rejoin the household, grounded and ready to engage with us all.

Though deeply traditional, Avva never imposed her beliefs on anyone. This quiet respect for individual choices mirrored my own discomfort with being pressured to conform. Her presence affirmed that one could stand firm in personal beliefs without expecting others to follow suit. It was a silent lesson in living authentically. Avva’s quiet strength and deep respect for individuality enkindled in me the courage to make my own choices. She taught me that independence isn’t about rejecting tradition but about living truthfully and allowing others the freedom to do the same. Her life was a beautiful balance of devotion and freedom – one I strive to embody every day.